I’ve been running away all my life. When I was little I ran to a vacant lot—the only place I could be all by myself and contemplate life as a butterfly. At sixteen, I ran as far as my thumb took me—changed my name and became who I wanted to be. I tried to be my own person and thought it was deadly not to be! I had the knowledge of what was underneath, but it was obscured by what others thought of me. Of all the term papers I wrote in college, the ones that remain tucked within my journals are those written about runaways.
Today I forced myself to look at a family picture, focusing on the odd fifty-six year old woman. I barely recognized her forced smile, heavy eyelids, hair streaked more with gray than her natural dark brown. They say you get the face you’ve earned by the time you’re forty—all those sorrowful and angry expressions, long hidden behind makeup, become the naked truth. It mirrors who you are, who you’ve been in a mosaic of endless tiles.
I know what I no longer want; things like making life pleasant for others while forgoing my own desires. I hate myself for never being satisfied. I should be more acceptable and accept the status quo, but obviously, I wouldn’t be writing this if I could.
In the beginning there was thought and her name was woman.
She is the OLD woman who tends the fires of life.
She is the OLD woman spider who weaves us together.
She is the eldest God and the one who remembers and
RE-MEMBERS.
~Anonymous
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